Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets
And count fair prize what comes into their net? 
He’s Judas to a tittle, that man is! 
Just such a face!  Why, sir, you make amends. 
Lord, I’m not angry!  Bid your hangdogs go
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health
Of the munificent House that harbors me
(And many more beside, lads! more beside!) 30
And all’s come square again.  I’d like his face—­
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door
With the pike and lantern—­for the slave that holds
John Baptist’s head a-dangle by the hair
With one hand ("Look you, now,” as who should say)
And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! 
It’s not your chance to have a bit of chalk,
A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! 
Yes, I’m the painter, since you style me so. 
What, brother Lippo’s doings, up and down, 40
You know them and they take you? like enough! 
I saw the proper twinkle in your eye—­
’Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. 
Let’s sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. 
Here’s spring come, and the nights one makes up bands
To roam the town and sing out carnival,
And I’ve been three weeks shut within my mew,
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints
And saints again.  I could not paint all night—­
Ouf!  I leaned out of window for fresh air. 50
There came a hurry of feet and little feet,
A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song—­
Flower o’ the broom,
Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! 
Flower o’ the quince,
I let Lisa go, and what good is life since? 
Flower o’ the thyme—­and so on.  Round they went. 
Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight—­three slim shapes,
And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood,
That’s all I’m made of!  Into shreds it went, 61
Curtain and counterpane and coverlet,
All the bed-furniture—­a dozen knots,
There was a ladder!  Down I let myself,
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped,
And after them.  I came up with the fun
Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met—­
Flower o’ the rose,
If I’ve been merry, what matter who knows?
And so as I was stealing back again 70
To get to bed and have a bit of sleep
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work
On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast
With his great round stone to subdue the flesh,
You snap me of the sudden.  Ah, I see! 
Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head—­
Mine’s shaved—­a monk, you say—­the sting’s in that! 
If Master Cosimo announced himself,
Mum’s the word naturally; but a monk! 
Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! 80
I was a baby when my mother died
And father died and left me in the street.